An Absence of Drums
by rainaftersnowplease
Summary: Something isn't right in Ooo. Bubbline and feels within. One-Shot.


**AN**:Story prompt from spookilier, on Tumblr.

I love you all. And I'm sorry.

Words: 1,879

* * *

**An Absence of Drums**

You find it mildly irritating that the sun shines for the first time in a week today. It took you weeks to set up the special container for Flame Princess, and now it will go to waste and to pieces like everything lately and—

"Ready, Bon?" her voice snaps your gaze in its direction. Her feet are on the ground, black boots up to her knees with black pants, miraculously not jeans, tucked neatly into them. A black off-the-shoulder sweater and matching gloves. In another circumstance you would tell her you like her in black. Not today though.

Today you nod and mount your tiara carefully on your head and smooth out your dress one more time. Today you close your eyes and take a deep breath that stutters twice in your throat. Today you walk with Marceline into the rude sun under the shade of her umbrella and force your knees not to wobble.

Most everyone has arrived. You find Lady first. She is strangely composed, the flow of her stripes still, the river of color you have always associated with freedom stagnant. The puppicorns sit around their mother in their new fancy clothes.

"_Is there anything I can do?" you ask, but the question sounds ridiculous, cliché in your mouth. This is your first time, and it is awkward, to say the least._

_What can you do, after all._

_You are trying, really, but nothing you have ever read about this has prepared you for it: for the way Lady's eyes swim, not quite crying but close to it. Her mouth wobbles, a boat on the waves. The puppicorns roughhouse around her, their joyous noise heartbreakingly out of place._

"_Do they have suits?" Marceline's voice buoys you from the depths. "Dresses, I suppose, for the girls?"_

_Lady bites her lip and shakes her head, eyes drowning now and unable to speak._

"_I'll take care of that, okay? Don't fret about it."_

_You look at her, but she stares motherly at Lady until your oldest friend nods and manages a shaky smile._

"_**Thank you.**"_

_Marceline nods, smiles back even. She is better at this than you are. You suppose she ought to be, as old as she is. You wonder how many times she has dealt with this to become so practiced. The thought of that sort of practice does not console you._

"You did a good job," you try for conversation as the two of you get closer to the congregation of your friends.

"Save it, hun," she answers sharply. You swivel to look at her, indignant, but her face repeats what you missed in her voice: she is uncomfortable. Debilitatingly so.

"Marcy—"

"Don't, okay?" the words are harsh but she is pleading. Her voice is too steady, its usual music gone for the day.

"Okay."

_She stays every night the following week, but you see less of her than ever. She sequesters herself in one of the basement rooms, one of the ones with no windows so the sun doesn't disturb her, and she sews. For days she sews single-mindedly and constantly. Sews well, too._

"_I didn't know you could," you tell her one day, setting the bowl of strawberries next to where she sits on the ground._

"_Could what?" her voice is far away, her eyes focus on the stitching between her fingers._

"_Sew," you clarify._

_She grunts and squints harder at the cloth, threading another stitch through it carefully._

"_Marceline," and when she still refuses to look up you go to her, put a hand over her work to obstruct her view._

"_Bonnie, I gotta get this done," she insists almost desperately, still not looking at you. You cup her jaw._

"_Marcy…" softer now. You nudge her work to the side. The unnecessary breath she takes, hitches; her throat works against the edge of your palm. You bump your forehead into her hair and she twists her free hand into your shirt, the movement quick and violent. Her nails scratch through the fabric a little, but that's okay right now. You tip her head up._

"_I have to finish these. I have to I—the kids…they ought to have…you know, some nice clothes so…so they…so they can…can—"_

"_Hush, just…just hush," she has you on the verge of tears yourself, and you swore you wouldn't—you won't._

_So you climb into her lap and make sure neither of you says anything for a while._

Lady accepts your hug with a quiet thank you. You have no idea what the protocol is for this. You know how everything will go, what everyone will do and say, but something is missing and for the life of you, you cannot figure out what it is. Marceline supplies it.

"Thanks for letting us be here, Lady."

It seems strange to you at first, because having to be here is most definitely not something you are thankful for.

"**Thank you for coming,**" Lady responds, the ghost of a smile flitting sadly across her face. "**And thank you for…everything else.**"

"It was my pleasure, really," this is an outright, boldfaced lie. And Marceline is many things, but a white liar is not one of them. You look at her and get déjà vu for your effort, because she keeps her eyes on Lady. Sincerity emanates from her like it rarely does. She really is good at this.

The two of you step to the side to let the mass of people behind you have a chance to talk to Lady. You find your seats, and at first the stillness is a nice change. Everything has been moving so quickly lately, erratic.

"You're gonna ruin those," Marceline says quietly. You look at her inquisitively and she smiles at you before shifting her gaze between your face and your lap. Your hands have been twisting your gloves tightly, compulsively, without you realizing it. Holding them still feels wrong. The stillness isn't so nice now.

You squeeze your eyes shut, because suddenly the quiet, the calm, the hushed voices around you: they are unbearable. Cold fingers gently pry your gloves away from you and thread themselves in their place.

"We can't—"

"Shut up, brainlord," she quiets you. "I'm a little more durable than these."

You dig your fingers into the back of her hand; her thumb skates over yours. You hold your breath but the moisture in your eyes overflows anyway, so you squeeze her hand tighter. Your nails must hurt, digging into her skin, but she just strokes your thumb slowly. She doesn't look at you again, and in this moment, you are so, _so_ grateful she is here.

"_He's gonna be a wreck," she warns._

"_I know."_

"_No, you don't," you look at her, but she refuses to look you in the eyes. "But you will."_

_Her tone is horribly, horribly familiar. You fear suddenly that you are losing her again. The thought makes you desperate._

"_Don't go," you plead. She finally meets your gaze, surprise on her face._

"_What?" she swallows and you watch her jaw clench afterward._

"_Don't. Go," you reiterate. "Not because of this. Please."_

"_I'm not going anywhere," she huffs, looking away. She crosses her arms over her chest._

"_You're a terrible liar, Marceline." This draws an angry hiss from her, paints her eyes sinister red and wide. But you have loved her too long to believe either of them._

"_I need you," you tell her. "Please, Marcy. I know this is hard for you, but please—"_

_Cold lips cover yours then, and geez, she hasn't touched you since this whole mess started and you've missed her. You grope for her jeans with your eyes closed, pulling her through the air by her belt loops when you find them. When her thighs thump against your knees you spread her legs and twist them around your waist. She locks her ankles against your lower back, scrapes her jagged teeth along your tongue just hard enough for it to feel dangerous. A shiver runs down your spine. You arch into her._

"_You have no idea," she says into your mouth. "One day it's gonna be you."_

"_Not today though," you argue, but really you just want her to do the thing with her teeth again._

"_No," she agrees, and you thrill a little because she sounds distracted, in the best way. "No, not today."_

You hear him before you see him. He is hatless, scruffy hair the color of sunshine reflected hiding his eyes. But you can hear him sobbing, choking. Flame Princess is there, hovering helplessly over him, unable to touch him. She looks up and finds you, flits her gaze between you and Marceline and back to Finn again. She jerks around so quickly, your heart tugs you to your feet before you can think about it. Then you stop, unsure.

There is _history_ here. You and Flame Princess have never been close. She has distrusted you for Finn's interest in you, and you have given her the same for her molecular instability. You feel a hand on your lower back, too low to be friendly but high enough that you don't scold her.

"Go."

You bolt to him, sliding onto your knees around a stunned Flame Princess to gather him in your arms and clutch him to you like he is the only thing in the world. Your teeth dig a dull line into your lower lip, because you have known this boy a long time. You have seen him happy, his joyous shouting breaking his voice into three different octaves within a single word. You have seen him angry, at you even, yelling so loudly you can hear the friction of his breath as it rushes out of his throat. You have seen him scared, his patchwork of teeth clattering together through his bravado. You have even seen him disappointed, his childlike honesty ever failing to keep his depression from his face.

But you have never seen him broken. He is the hero, the sun, the last human boy with bits of sky for eyes, who isn't afraid to fight candy zombies or vampires or a lich if he has to. And now he is crying, sobbing, drooling onto your dress, ruining it probably, but you just hug him closer for it. He shakes his head and chokes on ragged breaths and drags snot and spit and tears across your chest. His fists ball at your sides for a moment, and then his arms are around you too and he's hugging you _so tight_, and you're crying with him. The two of you are making a scene, you know. You are _loud_, the both of you, lungs and throats hitching out of time with each other. You try to whisper to him, but it comes out a loud gasping "I'm s-so s-sss-sorry, F-ff-f-Finn." And this only makes him louder and wetter, only makes you pull him more firmly against you. You don't know what to do. This is your first time and it is awkward, to say the least.

And what can you do, after all: nothing but muss his hair with your own open-mouthed sobbing and think of how damn unfair it is that dogs don't live as long as humans.


End file.
